my life

I'm blaming Don Anderson.

Ahem. Dr. Anderson, a respected and well-published scholar and writer, teaches a 211--Literature and Intermediate Composition--course. In addition to his credentials, his civilian status grants him more "get away with it" credits than the rest of us are privy to. So it goes.

I attended his 211 class Wednesday. I'm not even sure why, to be honest. A couple of my collegues planned to attend, and I happened to be standing nearby and get invited, I suspect. I accepted the invitation because I've heard so much about Don's classes.

He walked in, sat down, carefully arranged his books on the table in front of him, took a sip of water, and said, "What shall we discuss today?"

His students blinked at him. He said, "Well, let's check the syllabus. Oh wait...we don't have a syllabus. Hm. Maybe I'll read you the dwarf story. Have I read you the dwarf story?"

His class shook their collective heads. He said, "Oh good. Eric, do you mind hearing the dwarf story again?" Eric is one of my colleagues, recently promoted to major. Eric shook his head.

Don said, "Ok. First, let me give you some background. I was flying through Ohio in the winter. I got off my plane with several hours before my next flight. I don't know if any of you are from that part of the country, but it was cold. Damp. Dark. I was walking through the airport when I looked down a corridor and saw a Starbucks sign. I thought, 'That's just what I need--a $7 cup of coffee.'" Don has a deliciously dry sense of humor. "So I walked to it, turned the corner and...there was a dwarf at the counter."

"We have mixed feelings when we meet someone so different from ourselves. We want to look but we know it's rude, so we self-consciously don't look. That's confusing enough. But there's more...she was beautiful. She was dressed in a tailored business suit. Her hair was long and brown, with honey streaks, pulled back in a bun. So my reaction was...WHOA! and...whooOOOaa. I knew I'd have to write about her."

So he began to read his essay (called "Stunted"). He paused from time to time in his reading and discussed writing. He read the first part, describing the encounter, then said, "I didn't know why I was writing yet. But that's what writing is for--to help you figure out what you think."

I thought, amen.

In the course of his class, he made two other observations with which I wholeheartedly agreed. First, giving a student a page requirement on an essay defeats the point of exploring ideas and of good writing. In his words, "If you tell a student to give you ten pages, you may get ten pages' worth of a one-page idea. I don't want to read that sh*t." I agree completely. I certainly don't write to length. I write to share observations (here) and to figure out what I think (elsewhere). What happens when you have to write two pages on a story? Do you focus on the story, or are you worried about finding enough to fill up two pages? Right.

The other thing he mentioned was that he didn't think stories were written so people in literature classes could dissect them. I'm not sure, but I think he mentioned how it kills literature to read a good story then go into class and have to look for its "themes" or such.

Again, amen. But...I felt relieved and uncomfortable all at once. I felt a strange sensation I didn't really understand.

I thought about it all afternoon. All evening. All the next day. I spoke with several people about what was going through my mind. Then I decided to take the thoughts to my 211 classes. Collectively, they are smarter than I, and occasionally, each one of them has moments of brilliance.

And so it was, I went into my first 211 class today and sat down. This in itself is different. Normally, I'm a standing mover. I move from one student to the next. I'm quite energetic most of the time. I speak in a command voice. This is good, except when it isn't. This was a discussion for relaxation and a normal tone of voice, so I sat.

I told them all that I hated literature courses in college. I love literature, but I hated the courses because class time was invariably a waste of an hour of my life. Furthermore, I have always hated it when some stuffy English major (and I was a non-stuffy English major, I was quick to add) would opine, "Did you notice the symbolism of the vase in the corner over the fireplace while they spoke in the flickering firelight?" (I would say, "Um...no. I saw a vase. Are you on drugs?")

I've always hated such courses. Always. However, I learned a great deal from literature courses, but I learned it all simply because those courses forced me to read literature I otherwise would never have picked up. In other words, what I learned from those courses, I got from the literature itself.

But then I'd go to class and, all too often, class discussions destroyed the magic.

I told my students that I'd stood up in lit class and said, "Sometimes, the cigar is just a cigar. If you look for any symbol long enough, you'll find it, even if it isn't there. It's a symbol if it rises off the page and slaps you. I write stories, and I assure you...at no point do I stop and think, 'What would be a good symbol here?' Further, people would read my stories and say, 'I see a metaphor here....' I would reply, 'No...that's just two guys fighting.'"

Then I read them the Amy Tan interview. It was published in the San Francisco Chronicle in '96. In it, she talks about how people have found symbolism in The Joy Luck Club--symbolism she admittedly never intended. It's a great article. (I believe one of my creative writing teachers passed out copies to us. I don't remember, really.)

"We talk about how literature lives," I said. "It lives forever, a la Shakespeare. We write about it in the present tense, because it happens again every time we read it. Then we bring it into a literature course and...give it an autopsy."

Unsurprisingly, my students responded. One said, "Capt Black...isn't that what we've been doing?"

Patience, Michael. I'm getting to that part.

"Then I got a job teaching literature. I may have had one literature professor who taught it better, but generally, I always felt that the actual class time was wasted, because 95 - 100% of what I learned in the course, I learned from simply reading the literature. Most, if not all, of what lit courses ever did for me was to make me read literature I otherwise would have never picked up. Almost every time, I discovered it was enriching, and in most cases, even entertaining. If you were teaching a lit course, how would you teach it."

Blinks. Stares.

"That wasn't a hypothetical question."

Silence. Tentative hands going up. Yes!

"Ma'am...I always hated literature courses in school because we had to read stuff for themes, or symbolism, or...stuff. But I love the stories..."--which brings back something Don said in his class: "I'm going to read you this because human beings love stories. But I don't want to talk about it when I'm done."

I agreed, of course. Literature is great. But there's this problem...what do we talk about in class and what do we make tests about?

As the students came up with answers to the latter, I mentioned, "You are aware that you're possibly writing your own GR, right?" (Erm...Graded Review. It's what the rest of the world calls a "mid-term.")

They'll tell me or email me their ideas as they arise. I said to them, "I asked myself what I want you to get out of this class, as I discussed this with people. First, you must improve your writing skills. It's intermediate composition, after all. Live up to it. Then...I want you to have a glimpse of what I see in literature. You won't leave here loving it unless you came here loving it. That's fine. But you should have a taste of what it has to offer. I want you to remember this course in 2.5 years when you're butterbars and deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan or any godforsaken patch of land without your loved ones. Then...literature will save your sanity. It will take you away from the hell you're in, if only for a little while. And right now, it can take you away from the asylum you're in--if only for a little while. I want you to realize that you can live other people's lives vicariously, and thus gain experience through literature. You will understand people better. You will understand yourself better. I know what it's like to be an 18th century English minister's son because I read. I can grow and mature as quickly as I read. I want you to see these possibilities, and apply them in your lives."

Silence.

"I don't want this to be lit class. I want this to be Capt Black's book club."

Smiles.

"I still must test you. I have no choice." But our class discussions...?

What will we discuss?

My thoughts right now? We discuss the parts the students wish to discuss. If they come in with nothing, then I will read to them.

Thank you, Daddy.

Yes. I will read to them.

They are young adults, with good minds, healthy bodies and ambitious goals. But when I read to them, they relax, and focus, and...listen. And they learn. And appreciate.

I read "My Last Duchess" to them early on. I'd asked a couple of them to read it, pointing out that you don't pause at the end of the line if there's no puncutation. The idea was to get into the sense of the poem. However...the draw of the words--and habit--is powerful, and they didn't do so well. And none of them understood what the poem was about. So I read it to them.

Again...thank you, Daddy.

I read it as though I were the duke, saying this to the envoy arranging my next marriage. Their reaction was nothing short of amazing. I mean...Daddy told me he'd read a poem to some coworkers once to help them understand it, and they'd actually cried. I can't top that. I haven't made anyone cry yet. However...I read the poem.

Most of the students quietly followed in their books. Some just watched me as I read.

After I read it to them, I said, "So what's going on here?"

Many, many replies...right on target. "See? You can understand poetry!"

But for some reason, it's taken me this long to realize this is what I must do with my course.

See...Don read a piece he'd written, stopping from time to time to comment on his thoughts as a writer. "At this point, I still didn't know what my point was. I write to discover what I think and feel."

I envision my classes--those that aren't driven by students who have read and want to discuss what they've read--as something similar. I pick a portion I dig, for whatever reason, and I read it. I stop from time to time to ask why did he say that? And what's going on? And thus, we discover the irony and symbolism in literature without going searching for it.

As most people are well aware, if you go looking for anything long enough, you will eventually find it. I am against approaching any given story by searching through it for irony, or symbolism, or...whatever. But sometimes, the irony and symbolism is there. You discover it by reading it, then discussing your take on the remark.

So, essentially, I've decided to read to my classes--provided they don't appear with questions or specific interests--and discuss what we find along the way. Kinda like a nature hike. That's the sort of class I would have loved as an undergrad lit student. That's the sort of teacher I will be.

I've changed my assignments to comply with Don's opinion on page length requirements, ensuring my students understand that if they turn in one paragraph, it had better be earth-shaking.

I had a student early on who grumbled under his breath that he thought this poem was stupid.... I said, "What did you say? I heard the butt end of it, and it would help if I had the context." He said, "I think we should read this poem in class every day to remember just how stupid poetry is."

My first reaction, of course, was to have him read the poem he hated so passionately in class every day until the end of the semester.

But that wouldn't teach him much of anything. Besides, I refused to have a pissing contest with him--which is what it would become. Also...I felt--call me naive--that there was something to what he was saying, even if he was muttering under his breath in my class.

He reminded me of me, at least a little bit. Maybe a lot. I've always had very strong opinions on poetry.

At the time, I dealt with him in class for a couple of days, then emailed him, with a blind CC to his AOC (Air Officer Commanding, the military side). I said something to the effect that he should bring his book to class, that he still had not turned in his last journal, meaning he was failing my class already, and that I expected him to conduct himself like an adult--not like a spoiled child. It was a very curt email. No nonsense. I won't stand for anyone muttering in my class.

I had a pleasant chat with his AOC. I said I was having a bit of a problem, but I wanted to work it out with him on my own. I would notify the AOC if it didn't work. His AOC said Cool. I heard nothing more from the cadet. He came to class, he did his assignments, and he had valuable input for class dicussions. So I sent his AOC a note saying everything was great, and thank you for your support.

Well. This afternoon, that cadet came by my office. He sat down and said, "I just wanted to say that...what you were talking about today...you're on the right track. I also want to say that...well...I think we got started off on the wrong foot. I just want to apologize for some of the things I said...."

I said, "Nate, I'm past that. I'm glad you came by because I wanted to make sure you understood the difference between your right to your opinion and poisoning my classroom atmosphere. I won't stand for you poisoning my atmosphere. But you can hate poetry all you want."

He said, "Ma'am, I read voraciously. I love literature. I just didn't like the poems we were reading." He wants poems to have rhythm and meter, at the very least. I printed him a copy of Wordsworth's "Nuns fret not at their convents' narrow rooms." He recited some of "Minstrel Boy" to me (a poem by Thomas Moore). I asked him if he was declaring an English major. He said no because, to him, literature is something to be read...then digested. Frankly, he doesn't have time to read and digest anything at the Academy. Thus, he's going for a Poli Sci major. He plays cello. He's read Cicero, lots of C. S. Lewis, and St. Augustine. For pleasure. And what does he like about them? They were passionate.

We talked about the appeal of various poems to different age groups. He didn't appreciate "Prufrock" much. I told him, "I know this sounds silly, but...read it again in 15 or 20 years."

I'm glad I discarded my knee-jerk reaction to his subversive behavior and chose leadership over domination. And...it's a pity he loves literature so much but won't declare an English major because he wouldn't have the time to truly appreciate it. He's very passionate about literature, and possibly already better read than I am. I almost feel like he's cheating himself.

But on the up-side...wow.

He agreed to share some of his favorite poems with me, if not the class. I want them for my syllabus next semester.

d